Imperium - Харрис Роберт (читать книги онлайн полностью без регистрации .TXT) 📗
At the time he made that remark there were only four days left before the lex Gabinia was due to be voted on by the people. He still had not thought of a means of circumventing Crassus’s veto. He was wearied and discouraged, and once again began to talk of our retiring to Athens and studying philosophy. That day passed, and the next, and the next, and still no solution presented itself. On the final day before the vote, I rose as usual at dawn and opened the door to Cicero’s clients. Now that he was known to be so close to Pompey, these morning levees had doubled in size compared to the old days, and the house was crowded with petitioners and well-wishers at all hours, much to Terentia’s annoyance. Some of them had famous names, for example, on this particular morning, Antonius Hybrida, who was the second son of the great orator and consul Marcus Antonius, and who had just finished a term as tribune; he was a fool and a drunk, but protocol dictated he would have to be seen first. Outside it was gray and raining and the callers had brought in with them a wet-dog smell of moist, stale clothes and damp hair. The black and white mosaic floor was streaked with tracks of mud, and I was just contemplating summoning one of the household slaves to mop up when the door opened again and who should step in but Marcus Licinius Crassus himself. I was so startled, I briefly forgot to be alarmed, and gave him as natural a greeting as if he had been a nobody come to request a letter of introduction.
“And a very good morning to you, Tiro,” he returned. He had only met me once, yet he still remembered my name, which frightened me. “Might it be possible to have a word with your master?” Crassus was not alone but had brought with him Quintus Arrius, a senator who followed him around like a shadow, and whose ridiculously affected speech-always adding an aspirate to a vowel: “Harrius” was how he pronounced his name-was to be so memorably parodied by that cruelest of poets, Catullus. I hurried through into Cicero’s study, where he was doing his usual trick of dictating a letter to Sositheus while signing documents as quickly as Laurea could produce them.
“You will never guess who is here!” I cried.
“Crassus,” he replied, without looking up.
I was immediately deflated. “You are not surprised?”
“No,” said Cicero, signing another letter. “He has come to make a magnanimous offer, which is not really magnanimous at all, but which will show him in a better light when our refusal to agree to it becomes public. He has every reason to compromise, while we have none. Still, you had better show him in before he bribes all my clients away from me. And stay in the room and take a note, in case he tries to put words into my mouth.”
So I went out to fetch Crassus-who was indeed glad-handing his away around Cicero’s tablinum, to the awed amazement of all concerned-and showed him into the study. The junior secretaries left, and there were just the four of us-Crassus, Arrius, and Cicero all seated, and myself, standing in the corner and taking notes.
“You have a very nice house,” said Crassus, in his friendly way. “Small but charming. You must tell me if you think of selling.”
“If it ever catches fire,” responded Cicero, “you will be the first to know.”
“Very droll,” said Crassus, clapping his hands and laughing with great good humor. “But I am perfectly serious. An important man such as yourself should have a larger property, in a better neighborhood. The Palatine, of course. I can arrange it. No, please,” he added, as Cicero shook his head, “do not dismiss my offer. We have had our differences, and I should like to make a gesture of reconciliation.”
“Well, that is handsome of you,” said Cicero, “but alas, I fear the interests of a certain gentleman still stand between us.”
“They need not. I have watched your career with admiration, Cicero. You deserve the place you have won in Rome. It is my view that you should achieve the praetorship in the summer, and the consulship itself two years after that. There-I have said it. You may have my support. Now what do you say in reply?”
This was indeed a stunning offer, and at that moment I grasped an important point about clever men of business: that it is not consistent meanness which makes them rich (as many vulgarly assume), but rather the capacity, when necessary, to be unexpectedly, even extravagantly generous. Cicero was entirely caught off balance. He was effectively being offered the consulship, his life’s dream, on a platter-an ambition he had never even dared voice in the presence of Pompey, for fear of arousing the great man’s jealousy.
“You overwhelm me, Crassus,” he said, and his voice was so thick with emotion he had to cough to clear it before he could continue. “But fate has once again cast us on different sides.”
“Not necessarily. On the day before the people vote, surely the time has arrived for a compromise? I accept that this supreme command is Pompey’s conception. Let us share it.”
“A shared supreme command is an oxymoron.”
“We shared the consulship.”
“Yes, but the consulship is a joint office, based on the principle that political power should always be checked. Running a war is entirely different, as you know far better than I. In warfare, any hint of division at the top is fatal.”
“This command is so huge, there is easily room enough for two,” said Crassus airily. “Let Pompey take the east, and I the west. Or Pompey the sea and I the land. Or vice versa. I do not mind. The point is that between us, we can rule the world, with you as the bridge that links us.”
I am sure that Cicero had expected Crassus to come in threatening and aggressive, tactics which a career in the law courts had long since taught him how to handle. But this unexpectedly generous approach had him reeling, not least because what Crassus was suggesting was both sensible and patriotic. It would also be the ideal solution for Cicero, enabling him to win the friendship of all sides. “I shall certainly put your offer to him,” promised Cicero. “He shall have it in his hands before the day is out.”
“That is no use to me!” scoffed Crassus. “If it were a matter of merely putting a proposal, I could have sent Arrius here out to the Alban Hills with a letter, could I not, Arrius?”
“Hindeed you could.”
“No, Cicero, I need you actually to bring this about.” He leaned in close and moistened his lips; there was something almost lecherous about the way Crassus talked of power. “I shall be frank with you. I have set my heart upon resuming a military career. I have all the wealth a man could want, but that can only be a means and not an end in itself. Can you tell me what nation ever erected a statue to a man because he was rich? Which of the earth’s many peoples mingles the name of some long-dead millionaire in its prayers because of the number of houses he once possessed? The only lasting glory is on the page-and I am no poet!-or on the battlefield. So you see, you really must deliver the agreement of Pompey for our bargain to stick.”
“He is not a mule to be driven to market,” objected Cicero, whom I could see was starting to recoil again from the crudeness of his old enemy. “You know what he is like.”
“I do. Too well! But you are the most persuasive man in the world. You got him to leave Rome-do not deny it! Now surely you can convince him to come back?”
“His position is that he will come back as the sole supreme commander, or he will not come back at all.”
“Then Rome will never see him again,” snapped Crassus, whose friendliness was beginning to peel away like a thin layer of cheap paint on one of his less salubrious properties. “You know perfectly well what is going to happen tomorrow. It will unfold as predictably as a farce at the theater. Gabinius will propose your law and Trebellius, on my behalf, will veto it. Then Roscius, also on my instructions, will propose an amendment, setting up a joint command, and dare any tribune to veto that. If Pompey refuses to serve, he will look like a greedy child, willing to spoil the cake rather than share it.”
